


This Is How We Tumble Down

by coffeestainanalyst



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Angst, Consent Issues, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:39:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeestainanalyst/pseuds/coffeestainanalyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A classic drunk!sex "Oh my God, what happened last night"-fic.</p><p>Holmes is fine with Watson choosing domestic bliss over a life with him. (Only maybe he isn't.)<br/>Holmes is fine with Watson showing up uninvited now and then, a bottle of whisky in his hand and the promise of the good old times. (Maybe he couldn't resist him if he tried.)<br/>He's absolutely not fine with waking up in the morning next to a bruised and bloodied Watson, and no clear memory of the night before.</p><p> </p><p>  <b>Please heed the warnings, this fic deals with consent issues.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is How We Tumble Down

Sherlock Holmes awakes from the sound of cabs outside his window. They must be outside his window, because there is no logical explanation for them to be directly inside his head, hooves clop-clop-cloppingand _trampling_ behind his very eyes.

A fair amount of whisky on the other hand, consumed the night before, would be a perfectly conclusive explanation for that. Holmes groans and squeezes his eyes shut again, giving himself a few seconds to recollect the events of the former evening, as suddenly something rustles next to him. He opens his eyes and takes in the figure on his right, wrapped under his blanket, and what the hell – oh. _Oh_.

He remembers.

The night before had been a bleak one, like so many nowadays, since Watson had moved out to live with his wife. No case, nothing worth experimenting on, the newspapers (all of them, including three foreign ones) finished hours ago. Holmes had even eaten, and there was still so much night left before there was even a chance he'd be tired again. The knock on the door felt like a blessing. Watson still owned his keys, he also used them, but found it polite to knock beforehand to announce his arrival. Holmes was at the door before the poor doctor even had the chance to properly unlock it.

Oh yes, the events come back to Holmes now. It started so harmlessly; a night out with an old friend, later some whisky and soda at Baker Street, then some more, _please stay_ , chatter, laughter, closeness, the smell of tobacco and alcohol, more closeness, an accidental brush of fingers, innocent really, later another one, no longer accidental and by no means innocent. A familiar scent, a softness nearly forgotten, and _my dear friend, I don’t believe this is a good idea_. Watson chuckled at this, _Come one, in honour of the old times_ , and maybe it was the alcohol, but Holmes never needed anything as desperately as this. Somewhere beneath lightheaded laughter and the sparkling sensation inside his guts, the detective knew it was a mistake. Withdrawal was cruel, and Watson was going to leave him again. Because as much as John Watson valued this, valued _him_ , he enjoyed his reputation, his career, and not least his very freedom even more. He would never risk a scandal for something that clearly had no future.

That didn’t mean there was no room for a bit of fun behind closed doors, though, and despite all his wits, the great Sherlock Holmes fell for it again.

Holmes sighs and looks at his sleeping friend's form beside him. Maybe it would be best to leave now, leave now or be left later. Holmes pulls the blanket away in order to kiss the other man’s shoulder, but freezes at the sight of Watson’s skin. There are bite marks all over the doctor’s shoulder; deep ones, ones that drew blood. Holmes’ eyes widen. Despite better knowledge he pulls the blanket down further, revealing a cruel pattern of fingerprints and scratches. Holmes’ gut twitches.

  _I did this._

 Memories surface; foggy from too much whisky and too much _closeness_.

_He is behind Watson, thrusting into him as if for dear life, hands clutching his friend’s hip, drawing him close, closer, closest. Their skin is sweaty, Holmes' head spins but he keeps going; deeper, harder, digging his nails into Watson’s skin because he needs to be close, needs to feel more, needs more reaction. His lips find the doctor’s neck, his shoulder, and he thrusts, and he bites down, and again, and oh God, Watson finally makes a sound, loud, and it’s the most divine thing Holmes has ever heard._

Holmes refuses the urge to run his fingertips over the wounds, to explore them, in fear of waking the other man. He doesn’t recall biting down so hard, it had not felt like ripping skin and drawing blood.

It had most certainly felt like that to Watson, though.

Holmes' stomach churns. How could he let himself get carried away like that? He knows he is in good shape; a fighter, stronger than his friend – Watson's a veteran for God's sake! – he knows he could wrestle the other man down, only that he would never – only that maybe he had.

No, he tries to shake the very thought out of his head – really, here he is, his trusted friend, lover even, curled up in Holmes’ bed, sleeping. It is risky to stay away overnight when you are married, and yet here he is, and he certainly wouldn’t be if anything about last night had not been to his liking.

Then why does it feel so wrong now? Holmes suddenly craves to smoke, not a pipe, certainly not a cigar – a cigarette will do. He rises as silently as possible, fetching his dressing gown and moves to the living room. He sits down in the armchair and fumbles for a box of matches. He remembers sitting here, on the couch, Watson next to him, tipsy, cheerful, everything he ever wanted and everything he ever lost.

_I’m all yours tonight, do to me whatever you want._

Holmes had never been a master of social interaction, but neither was he an idiot, he knew then that "whatever you want" did not mean _whatever_ , the phrase came attached with a silent sidenote, and it said "because I trust you and I know you’d never want anything that would hurt me."

A fool, who believes he can trust Sherlock Holmes.

The cigarette burns down and Holmes immediately lights another one. He inhales the smoke deeply. Watson started this. He'd been the one pushing, seducing, touching. He led them to Holmes' bedroom.

_They are all over each other, clothes are clumsily removed, every fresh part of naked skin immediately caressed, worshipped even. As the tension builds, touch becomes desperate, greedy, none of them is disturbed by the sound of buttons being dismantled –_

(None of you, really? Think, Sherlock, think!) But he can’t recall, all he knows is that there was skin on skin, perfection, and it had been so long, and _oh_ , he needed this, and oh, he remembers desperately searching for something to slick himself up (It's blurry, it's so blurry, but he did find something eventually, didn't he? Didn't he?), and oh, even in his frenzy he was too afraid to close his eyes - what if he was just hallucinating again – but as he entered Watson, the doctor’s moan was real and it sounded just like "Oh!" too.

It sounded like "Oh!" to Holmes at that time, anyway. Maybe that was what he'd wanted to hear. Truth be told; muffled into the pillows, it could have been... but no, it really couldn’t. Because if he had defied an outspoken _no_ , he deserves to be shot right here and there.

The detective is startled out of his thoughts by the tapping of naked feet against the floor.  

  _He’s awake, then._

Sherlock Holmes steadies himself. Watson will be here soon. And maybe all is well. Maybe nothing will ever be well again.

He stubs out the cigarette and waits.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks everybody who commented on this! <3
> 
> About writing a sequel: I planned this fic as a standalone because I think it's more powerful that way. I am honoured by your interest, though!


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